by Polly Iyer
“It’s just a glass. Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.”
“That’s right, you clean it up because I can’t,” she snapped. “Isn’t that what you wanted to say?”
He saw her words, but her tense body language said more. “No, that’s not what I wanted to say.”
“Sure it is. Go ahead, say it.”
“No way.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I would never infer that you needed help to do something as simple as clean up broken glass by running your fingers all over the shards. Not you. You can take on the whole world by yourself. Alone. In the dark.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re the shrink who’s supposed to help people, and you won’t let anyone help you. I’m on pins and needles watching you sometimes, but I’m so afraid of offending you if I offer to help that I back off. You want to clean it up? Go ahead. Do it. And when you want the glass picked out of your fingers, you can ask me to get the tweezers. I’ll be right here waiting.”
She plunked down in the chair, still silent. Luke expected tears, but none came. She sat and stared into space, unmoving. A long time passed before she spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
Luke said nothing.
“Are you looking at me?”
He still didn’t answer.
She reached across the table, waving her hand until she made contact, and tipped over the other glass of wine in the process. “I said I’m sorry. I warned you this could happen.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t explode more often, and I don’t care if you do. I understand that. What I don’t understand is holding everything inside until it’s an atomic bomb.
“We have to get a few things straight if we’re going to make it, Abby. You said you didn’t want me to be your crutch. Well, I don’t want to be yours either. That doesn’t mean I can’t help make your life easier. It works both ways, you know. I feel things for you I never thought possible, but I can’t walk on this broken glass to make it work because I’m afraid of offending your delicate sensibilities.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“What? I didn’t hear that. Would you mind repeating what you said? I want to get it on tape.”
“Why? You can’t hear it anyway. Besides, I spoke directly to you. You saw it.”
“I want it on tape so I can play it back in case you forget.”
She got up, felt her way over to him, and sat on his lap. Running her fingers over his face, she found his lips and kissed him. “I’m sorry, Luke. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to ask for help. You’d think after eight years, I’d admit there are some things I don’t do very well. It takes me so damn long to make dinner, and I hate cooking more than anything. And I love you a hundred times more than I hate cooking. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
“I’m here for you, Abby, and I will be as long as you want me. And I like to cook. If you want my opinion, I don’t think you’d be a very good cook even if you could see, so what’s the big deal if I do it? I’ll even learn to make quiche or steam green beans if that’s what you want to eat. Now, do you want to tell me why you’re in such a foul mood? It’s not just a broken glass. I’m sure that’s not the first one you’ve broken, and it won’t be the last.”
Her hesitation confirmed something deeper churned inside her. “I guess I’m afraid of what this doctor is going to find out. Did I know something eight years ago that could have prevented Stewart from—”
“Stop. You can’t beat yourself up for something you couldn’t control. You can’t go back in time.”
“But what if—”
“You can’t.” He touched her face. “It won’t make any difference to the way things turned out. Stop thinking about it. Now, I’m hungry. There’s broken glass and wine all over dinner and all over the floor, so let me clean it up. Then we’re going out to eat. Is that all right with you?”
“I ruined dinner?”
“Sweetheart, you ruined dinner before you ever put it on the table.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Going Under
The next day, after Jeff swept Luke’s car for a tracking device, he insisted on going along on the trip to Dayton. The muscles in Jeff’s face tensed whenever Collyer’s name was mentioned. Luke knew his friend salivated at the thought of a confrontation with the South African, a man Jeff had yet to see but knew as if he were a mirror image.
* * * * *
The three spoke little on the drive, and when they arrived, Don greeted them and introduced Abby to Dr. Schell.
“The hypnotist is a facilitator,” Dr. Schell said in his Swiss accent. “Ordinarily, a subject will not perform any act under hypnosis he would be loath to do under normal circumstances. However, given the heavy concentration of drugs mixed with whatever else comprised his pharmacological cocktail, Mr. Gentry may have lost all control. The fact that there is a history of mental illness in his family may or may not contribute to his reaction to the drugs he was given.”
“Could he have been programmed?” Abby asked.
Dr. Schell didn’t respond. Abby doubted he wanted to irresponsibly implicate another doctor without proof.
Proof. How could so many things happen with no proof?
They decided that Abby would take the first session, then she would spend time with Stewart to explain what Dr. Schell was going to do.
“You will remember everything you tell me, Dr. Gallant,” Dr. Schell said, “and you will know everything that’s going on.”
“I will?”
“That breaks a few myths, doesn’t it? But that’s how it works.” He turned on the recorder.
“I want you to think of a soothing image and put yourself in that place.”
The constant undulation of the ocean always had a calming effect, and now she concentrated on the picture she drew in her mind. Dr. Schell began counting, and on each count he deepened the hypnosis by asking her to think of additional details of the ocean—its sound and smell, the sea breeze. Before long, Abby slipped into a deep trance.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Schell asked.
“Relaxed.”
“I want you to focus on the time you were married. The time when you were very happy. You and Stewart and your daughter Macy.”
Abby recounted the days when Stewart was painting, and how their lives were exciting and productive. She recalled when both she and Macy started school in Atlanta at the same time.
“Do you remember Martin Gentry’s plane crash?”
“Yes. Stewart was very upset over his father’s death. He loved him very much.”
“What happened after the funeral?”
Abby didn’t answer, and Dr. Schell prompted her.
“Stewart was angry with his mother.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, he wouldn’t talk about it, but he didn’t want to see her anymore.”
“Did you see Dr. Scanlon during this time?”
“He visited with Stewart.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“I…I don’t know.”
The psychiatrist tried a few other avenues to ask the same question, then asked some others. Confusion filled Abby’s head, and she became agitated. She couldn’t remember anything.
Dr. Schell brought her back slowly. “How do you feel?”
“Frustrated. It was as if a switch had been pulled and my memory disappeared.”
“I didn’t want to press or dredge up bad memories unless you went there willingly. We needed to extract one thing. When that wasn’t forthcoming, I feared going deeper.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. We knew that would be a possibility. Yours is an unusual case. There are numerous reasons why you might not remember.”
“Have I purposely erased the last few months of my marriage? Is that possible?”
“Hmm, yes. It’s possible. And don’t forget, you suffered serious head trauma. Or you may have responded to a hypnotic suggestion t
hat won’t release. Then again, Mr. Gentry might think he told you those things. We’ll see what he has to say. You can sit in if you wish. Your presence might relax him. I’ve studied his chart, his EEG, and the notes supplied by Dr. Weston and the Dayton staff. Let’s see how it goes.”
* * * * *
Abby listened as Dr. Schell spent thirty minutes with Stewart, explaining the procedure as simply as possible. Stewart sounded suspicious. Abby wondered if he equated the doctor with Scanlon. With her help, he eventually relaxed.
When Stewart finally relaxed, the doctor followed the same procedure he’d applied to Abby. Stewart didn’t resist and went deeper into a hypnotic state with each successive count. After a few simple questions designed to focus him, Dr. Schell asked Stewart about the plane crash that killed Martin Gentry. Schell knew what Stewart told her, so he expected the response that Mrs. Gentry and Collyer had murdered his father. But Stewart’s next statement sent a chill up Abby’s spine.
“My father suspected my mother and Collyer were going to kill him.”
She could hear Dr. Schell’s quick breath before he continued.
“Your father knew his wife planned to kill him?”
“Yes. He gave me an envelope to give the police if anything happened to him.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Stewart squirmed noisily in his chair.
“Did you open the envelope?” Dr. Schell continued.
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“I…can’t—I don’t remember.”
“And where is this envelope now?”
“I put it in a safe place.”
“Do you remember where, Stewart?”
More fidgeting. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Did you meet with Dr. Scanlon at that time?”
At the mention of Scanlon, Stewart’s agitation boiled over. “I don’t want to answer any more questions. No more.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” Dr. Schell said without a hint of disappointment. He brought Stewart back slowly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what you told me?”
“Yes, I remember. I remember it now.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Stewart sniffed. Abby wondered if he was crying.
“No, but I’d like to speak to Abby alone.”
She heard him get up and pace.
“Will you be all right, Abby?” Dr. Schell asked.
“She’ll be fine,” Stewart said.
Luke and Jeff were nearby, so Abby nodded. Her heart pounded. Though Stewart still paced, he sounded more lucid than at any time since he tricked her into his car at her office. Schell left the room, and Stewart dragged a chair next to her. His warm, dry hand covered hers.
“I remember now, Abby. Parts are still fuzzy, but I remember most of it. I didn’t tell you anything.”
Abby heart rate quickened. I didn’t forget. I never knew.
“My father gave me an envelope to open if something happened to him. When his plane crashed, I opened it.”
“What was in it?”
“That’s the part I don’t remember. I’ve tried, but I can’t.” Stewart got up and walked from one side of the room to the other, shuffling in his slippers like an old man. “God, my head is pounding. It’s like I’m living in a dream, but I keep waking up. Then I forget the dream.”
He was getting anxious. Was she still safe? “Stay focused, Stewart. What happened next?”
“Next. What happened next?” Stewart repeated the question while he resumed his rotation. “Let me think. Think, Stewart, think. I…I went back to Charleston alone to confront my mother, and that’s when I heard the conversation between her and Collyer. I couldn’t believe my ears. They killed him because of what was in the envelope. I wanted to go to the police, but then I made the mistake of telling them that.” He stopped pacing and returned to his chair. “The next thing I remember I was talking with Scanlon. They did something to me. That’s why I never told you. I couldn’t have.”
Relief filled Abby. She knew nothing that could have saved Macy’s life. Tears stung her eyes. After a couple of deep breaths, she said, “Do you still have the papers?”
Stewart rose from the chair and started pacing again. A pained sound escaped from his throat. Abby tensed as he mumbled unintelligibly. Should she call Luke? A thought flashed into her mind, and she brushed it away as if it were lint on her sleeve. No, Stewart wouldn’t hurt me. Not now.
“I’m jammed,” he said. “I can’t remember. I can’t—”
“Never mind.” Abby needed him to stay calm. “Sit down. It’s not important. You can think of it later.”
“No, now. I’m so close. I know it. So close.”
His words were clipped, impatient. She didn’t want to agitate him further.
“Okay, then, picture the papers. What do you see?” Stewart rocked in his chair next to her, back and forth, rubbing against her leg.
“Numbers. Lots of numbers. They were fire in my hands.”
“Did you show your mother the papers?”
“No—I don’t know. I can’t remember. All I remember is Scanlon. After that, my world changed.”
Abby reached for his hand. It felt hot now, bony and damp. She remembered his long elegant fingers as she wrapped around them. “Did you discuss what the papers were about?”
“I don’t remember,” Stewart said, his voice agitated again. “I don’t remember the most important part.” He moaned, long and deep and mournful. “I’m fucked up.”
She pulled him close. He got down on his knees and put his head in her lap. While he cried, she stroked his head. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “You don’t need to remember now. It’ll come to you. Give it time.” The weight lifted from her lap, and his pained voice spoke words they both knew were true.
“I know just enough to know I’ll never be okay. I can’t live in the real world any more.”
She felt him slipping away again. “Stewart, we’re almost there. Then you can get back to your painting.” She could almost see his recognition.
“Yes, my painting. They can’t take that away from me, can they?”
“No, they can’t. Come, I’ll help you to bed.” She took his hand, but he did the leading. When they got to his bed, she ran a comforting hand over his cheek. He took it and brushed a kiss across her palm, then settled down. “You need to rest. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Abby worked her way around the side table to the wall, until she came to the door. When she got to the corridor, she leaned against the wall. Luke and Jeff were right there. She assumed they watched everything that went on inside the room. “I need to speak to Dr. Schell.”
“I think he’s in the doctor’s lounge with Dr. Weston,” Jeff said. “I’ll get him.”
“What did Stewart say?” Luke asked. “I watched, but I couldn’t see.”
She faced him. “There’s an envelope with proof of something, but he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t know where. At least not now.”
“Must be the originals of whatever Matt had in his possession when he was killed.”
They were joined in a nearby sitting area by Weston, Jeff, and Dr. Schell. Abby recounted her conversation with Stewart to the four men.
“The hypnosis jarred his subconscious,” Dr. Schell said. “He’s starting to remember things. His father told him not to give the information to anyone unless something happened to him, but if Herbert Scanlon got to him before Stewart went to the police, then Scanlon’s been trying to get that information for eight years and hasn’t succeeded. Stewart is obeying his father’s wishes by not letting it out of his mental possession.”
“That’s why they haven’t killed him,” Luke said.
“He made the mistake of telling his mother,” Jeff said, then mumbled, “Skinny bitch.”
“Stewart’s fragile now,” Abby said. “I didn’t want to push.
”
Luke’s hand rested on her arm. “Did you have a joint account when you were married?
“Yes, but his accountant took care of all our money. He gave me whatever I needed.”
“I wonder if the accountant was Sam Davidson,” Jeff said.
“No, I don’t think so. His name was Carlin or Casey. Something like that.” Abby stopped cold. “I’ll bet that’s how he did it!”
“Did what?” Luke asked.
“Kept an open account or contracted a safe deposit box. His accountant handled it for him. It’s the only way, don’t you see? This guy handled all Stewart’s business affairs.”
“But there’s nothing in Stewart’s name,” Luke said. “I checked.”
“Then he used another name,” Jeff said.
“Can’t open accounts that way today,” Luke said, “but he might have gotten away with it eight years ago, especially if he knew the banker and put a lot of money in the account.”
“He had accounts all over the place,” Abby said. “Some held Gentry money, and then he liked to say the other accounts held Stewart Gentry money. He boasted that he didn’t have to live on his family’s money.”
“Those accounts are closed,” Luke said.
“Let me talk to him again. Luke, see if he’s sleeping.”
Luke peeked into the room. “No, he’s lying there with his eyes open.”
Abby entered the room. Stewart seemed changed, quieter. “Stewart, you said you had a bank account. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, more than one.”
“Do you remember where?”
“In Atlanta. One in Charleston too, with family money. I closed them all.”
“Why?”
“I figured the papers had something to do with my father’s death. He feared for his life. Maybe I needed to fear for mine too.”
Stewart laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? That had been my only fear. The reality is much worse.”
Keep him on track. “Did you have a safe deposit box in any of the banks?”
“No—yes,” he said in quick succession. “I don’t know. I promised not to tell. My father told me not to and I never did.”
“You need to tell now, Stewart. It’s the only way we can punish the people who killed him.” She wanted to say the people who killed Macy, but she didn’t want to remind Stewart that he was the one who pulled the trigger.